All words and photography © Nina Nixon
When we moved here we were knee deep in darkness, the depths of winter had set in and our eyes accustomed to the long drawn out nights.
The garden appeared barren, dormant and desolate. All the tress stood still with twisted branches that looked like veins silhouetting the bleak landscape. But we had trees on our small patch of earth and for me that was all I needed to get me through to spring.
For our first year the trees did nothing, as I wondered what they might be. Though come last winter my wonder was wearing thin and dreams of orchards and fluffy petals of blossom had me thinking of replacing them and planting my own. These trees were surely some kind of mock and were just there for show. Like most of the garden we had inherited.
But come this spring, still in the throws of building works to the house all thoughts of ever achieving anything that might represent something of beauty and homegrown produce were far from my mind.
Until a few weeks ago when I could see the birds darting too and fro from tree to tree, chattering wildly and what looked like a feast was taking place.
And that's when my jaw dropped. For with all my head in the clouds, I'd neglected to notice way up high in the branches plum upon fat, rounded juicy plum hanging down like jewelled droplets.
Dreams were rekindled of a garden that would supply our need to grow our own. Patches have already been dug awaiting next years produce.
And we now have a supply of plums to last us at least two years, until it fruits again.